Free Roma Victrix by Russell Whitfield Page A

truth of the matter was that the Dacians – whilst barbarians – were far from being Germans. The night before, Fuscus had referred to Dacia as a proto civilisation. Certainly, in this part of the country they had proper towns and villages, trading, sophistication and all the elements of rudimentary society. Further north that was not the case, of course – Valerian had heard tell of feral tribes, human sacrifice, obscene torture and all sorts of savagery. But on campaign there were always those sorts of tales about the enemy.
    He glanced about, realising that the rain had stopped just as the vanguard breached the wall of trees that separated the Roman army from the Dacian heartland. Scouts had reported the way ahead was clear. The military had a healthy respect for enemy woodland, ever since the Teutoburg disaster of eighty years before – no commander in his right mind was going to send his men blindly into a wooded heathen maze without the absolute surety that no trap was about to be sprung on the legions when they were at their most vulnerable.
    Now that the rain had ceased, an almost unnatural quiet descended upon the army as it flowed through the woods. To a bird flying above them, Valerian reckoned that it must look like a scarlet and iron river was seeping into the tree line, the irresistible tide of Rome drowning the wild Dacian landscape as it progressed inland. As though in response to this invasion, a mist began rise about the legs of the marching soldiers as grey and cold as the waters of the Styx.
    Valerian could feel the trepidation in the vanguard as they marched on. As a matter of breeding, all rankers were superstitious oafs – they were either farmyard yokels or city scum, the vast majority of them illiterate, unimaginative and stupid. Not that these were neces-sarily faults in the average legionary; such men could be counted on to obey orders without question, fear no enemy and not realise when they were beaten, thus often turning defeat into victory.
    But here, far from home in the eerie embrace of the eastern European wilds, even the most prosaically-minded soldier could begin to see ghouls in the shadows. Valerian had to admit to himself that the forest had an unnatural feel to it; a strange malevolence seemed to permeate the mists as though the land itself was angered by the presence of the invaders from the west. He shook his shoulders, chiding himself for falling prey to fanciful imaginings.
    The legions pressed on, making good progress despite the mists that continued to rise. The trees were thick but not impassable and good marching order was maintained. The men, however, still looked anxious.
    â€˜My old mum told me about places like this,’ Valerian heard a ten-year veteran confide to his mate. ‘These barbarian forests are haunted by the poor sods they kill in their human sacrifices.’
    Valerian leaned down in the saddle. ‘Your old mum also told her husband that you were his issue, Decimus, despite her servicing half the depot when he was on campaign.’ Decimus’s mate cracked up laughing, as did most of the men within earshot. ‘Haunted forests, indeed. What a load of bollocks.’
    â€˜Yes sir, thank you sir,’ Decimus looked chagrined and baleful all at once. ‘Bollocks, sir,’ he added, his intonation making it the accusative: ‘ Bollocks to you, sir .’ It was as much a retort his rank would allow, and Valerian was pleased to let it pass. The exchange had broken the mood, which was the main thing.
    â€˜Come on now, lads!’ Valerian raised his voice. ‘Not much further and we’ll be out in open country.’
    It was true. A few miles had passed underfoot after the exchange and the men of the vanguard could see the trees thinning out ahead.
    Valerian failed to notice at first, but the silence had been replaced by something else. A low, distant roaring that seemed to come from the very earth